Memories in the Drift: A Novel

by Melissa Payne

  The memory dissolves when my phone buzzes with a reminder. Volunteer in Kiko’s classroom. My jaw unclenches and I sit up, wondering how bad things must have been for Mom by then; how sad, how hopeless, how alone she was to have made the choices she did. I feel a twinge and wish—maybe for the first time—that I could have been old enough to help her through it.

  The beanbag chair feels lumpy, so I adjust my frame until I can get just the right amount of lean without feeling like I’m going to tip backward. I wonder whether I’ve spoken to Kiko about getting a different kind of chair for me. I might be a tad too tall for a beanbag chair, even if it is giant size. When I’m more comfortable I quickly review my notes, see that I’ve worked with two kids this morning—one a sweet boy with a terrible cold, who kept trying to sneeze into his elbow but missed every single time. And now the last kid of the day is walking my way: cat-eye glasses, hair in a beautiful updo, surprisingly elegant for elementary school, and a name tag that spells out Maree. Immediately, I am smiling, and when she settles herself on the smaller beanbag, I say, “So do you like Anne of Green Gables? I could read that to you today, if you’d like.”

  Her mouth hangs open slightly and she stares at me, one hand touching her name tag. “Um, wow, that’s just—wow, Ms. Claire. Is that you remembering me? ’Cause—um, wow—that’s just the best ever, ’cept I have more of my story that I wrote, and I really, really want to read it to you today. Can I?”

  I’m thrown by what she says, except I do know this kid, see it recorded in my preparation notes for today. Might see Maree at school volunteering today. You teach her guitar lessons and also see her at the school gardens and around town quite often. Huh. Nothing about Anne of Green Gables, though. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

  She opens up a little paper booklet with pink and green staples. Flips forward a few pages to one with CHAPTER TWO written in uneven letters across the top.

  “Once upon a time, a big ugly, smelly giant found his way inside Uki’s village.” She pauses to show me the picture of a thick-legged, one-eyed giant who appears to be wearing a diaper. “And the giant had a heart that was a big black piece of coal, and he stomped around the entire town like a giant baby.” She smiles. “I like that part.”

  She turns the page. “So everybody in the village was hiding from him, ’cept for one little boy who didn’t know any better. The giant saw the boy, and he grabbed for him ’cause giants eat kids ’cause we’re delicious and taste like candy.”

  I hide my smile and notice how her writing is uneven and messy, the sentences curving down the page.

  The next page has an illustration of a pink stick-figure girl with long hair and what I think is a pink cape. “So Uki picked up the biggest rock she could find and put it into her slingshot. ‘Let go of that boy,’ she yelled. But the giant didn’t listen, so she pulled her slingshot way, way back and let the rock fly. And it hit him in the forehead and knocked him out.”

  I can see that she ran out of space, turning her writing into tiny, minuscule print to keep it on the page. “When the giant fell the whole village shook like there was an earthquake.”

  She turns the page to a big heart and one large-printed sentence. “And the boy loved her from that day on.”

  “You’re a great storyteller,” I say.

  “Thanks!” She touches her head. “Do you like my hair?”

  “I do; it’s very beautiful. Did you do it yourself?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope.”

  “Time to move on, class. Everyone say thank you to Ms. Claire, please.”

  The little girl hops up and hugs me. I smell hairspray and vanilla, and I am touched by her sudden affection. “Thank you,” she whispers against my shoulder. I touch her hair—it is stiff and full of bobby pins—before she pulls away and skips back to her seat.

  I’m in the school tunnel heading in the direction of BTI. Glimpses of my purple socks remind me that it’s a Thursday. My phone tells me the time and buzzes with a reminder of what I’m doing. Home for lunch and shower. A woman walks toward me from the other end of the tunnel. I squint—it’s my mother, and I immediately pull out a note card from my pocket, glance over the three lines to me, feel a pang even if I already know that she’s here and Dad is dead. When we meet in the middle, she smiles and hands me a note card. I live in Whittier and I’m sober. I watch you manage your days with skill and grace and confidence. You amaze me. Love, Mom.

  The note card has the number twelve in the corner, and the message sprinkles a warm feeling over my skin. “Hi, Mom,” I say and it feels natural. I like it. “Where are you going?”

  She’s holding a pan that’s covered with a plastic lid. “There’s a boy in Kiko’s class, and the poor kid is allergic to peanuts, dairy, and gluten, and it’s his birthday today. She asked if I could make something for him that he could share with the class.” She lifts the tray, smiling. “Nut-free, dairy-free, and gluten-free, and they are so good, too, if I do say so myself.”

  “That’s great.” The interaction is normal and yet surreal, and I can’t help but feel the loss of the years that her alcoholism laid to waste. It makes a lump grow in my throat.

  She touches my shoulder when she moves past me. “You’ve got guitar lessons with Maree later, is that right? She loves her lessons with you.”

  “Oh,” I say, and feel my shoulders lift. “That’s nice.” A buzz from my phone. “I’d better go. Bye, Mom.”

  I walk on, but when I reach the doors to BTI, I look back and see her standing in the middle of the tunnel, staring after me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Saturday, February 16

  I’m walking next to Sefina out the doors of BTI and into a bitterly cold but clear day, the winter sun a chronic underachiever. I’m wearing snow pants, a winter coat, and waterproof mittens. Even with all the warm gear, my nose drips and the skin on my cheeks tingles. Snow piles high up the concrete stairs, giving the abandoned boats that litter the property across from our building a winter-wonderland effect. It’s beautiful and I’m enjoying the walk. But where Sefina and I are going is the question I can’t currently answer.

  “Are we going to lunch?” I say.

  “We’re going snow machining with Tate Dunn,” she says, her voice muffled by a fleece gaiter she wears around her neck and the lower half of her face. “And then he wanted to take us out to eat.” She looks up at me, her movements stiff from the layers around her head and neck. “He lives here now, and he’s the harbormaster.”

  “Oh.” My stomach flip-flops as I try to picture Tate as being old enough or responsible enough for that kind of a job. But the first image that comes to mind is him at seventeen: tall and lanky, his eye black and swollen, saying goodbye to me in the early hours before school.

  “Snow machining?” I say.

  “Up Shotgun Cove Road,” she says from behind her gaiter. “He thinks you need to get out of BTI more. He says that the fresh air and experiences are good for you, even if you can’t remember having them.”

  I feel a pang and have to stop walking, rub my arms. “It sounds fun, but I can’t take notes while I’m on a snow machine.” I shift my weight; the idea puts me into free fall. Remembering my time with Tate is something I want to keep with me.

  Beside me, Sefina inhales, touches my arm. “Claire,” she says evenly. “This is about giving you experiences—and you deserve to have experiences—to enjoy it in the moment, as Alice is so fond of saying.”

  That diverts my attention. “Alice?” My hand slides to my pocket, but in my mittens and snowsuit, I can’t find it.

  “Alice lives here now; she’s sober and kind, and she loves you. I didn’t know the woman who drank for years, but I can promise you that the woman she is today is exactly the kind of mother I imagined would have raised someone like you.”

  The news of Mom living here doesn’t hit me as hard as I’d expect. “Someone like me?”

  She elbows me. “Yeah, kick-ass and strong, but she’s a much
better baker.” I can hear her smile in her voice. “No offense. But, hey, look at you! You just trusted me to tell you about Alice without having to look at your note card or notebook.” She squeezes my arm. “Progress.”

  We keep walking, my mind repeating the activity. We’re going snow machining with Tate. Snow machining with Tate. “Whose idea was this?” I wonder out loud.

  “Yours, actually. Tate asked what kinds of things you’d like to do on a date, and this was one of them. He said that Vance used to take the two of you sledding behind the snow machine. Said it was some of his best memories from his childhood. He’s a great guy, Claire. And he’s got all kinds of adventures planned for you.”

  My face burns now despite the cold, and a sinking feeling pulls at my legs. It’s not hard to put it all together. Tate and Sefina. Of course. She’s beautiful and kind and lovely and normal. My head falls toward my chest. My two best friends, and now they watch out for me, make sure their brain-damaged, pathetic friend goes for a walk. I should be happy for them, not feeling sorry for myself. I breathe in and smile behind my gaiter. “That’s great, Sefina; I’m really happy for you.”

  “Happy for me? What?”

  “You and Tate. It’s great, really.” I start to walk again, but Sefina pulls at my arm to stop me.

  “Wait, hold up. You’ve got it all wrong, Claire.”

  I shake my head, look at my feet instead of her. “No, it’s okay. You two are both amazing people. I mean, I don’t know him anymore, but I know you, and I always knew that he would grow up to become a good man.”

  Sefina groans. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Claire. Stop using your memory as an excuse for why nobody is allowed to care about you.”

  For a moment I can’t speak because she’s more right than she knows. After Tate left, I held everyone—maybe even Dad at times—far away from my tender spots, afraid that what was left of my heart would wreck completely if someone else I loved left me. Do I do that even now?

  “That man has been in love with you his whole life. But you refuse to believe that you deserve his love, so you tell yourself you’re not good enough. Self-sabotaging at its absolute finest.” She punches me lightly in the arm. “When are you going to stop lying to yourself and just accept the fact that Tate loves you just as you are?”

  I raise my eyebrows, the heaviness from before lightened by her words. “Did you just quote Bridget Jones to me?”

  She laughs. “You bet your ass I did. If Mark Darcy can’t get through to you, who can?”

  I listen to the snow crunch under our feet, the cold sting of flakes bouncing off my nose, feel the warmth of my friend walking beside me, and enjoy the moment for as long as I can.

  I sit behind Tate, arms around his waist, feeling the snow machine glide over the frozen landscape. My fingers tingle to write about the trees flying past us, branches laden with clumps of snow. The depthless blue green of the water in Passage Canal. Or the way Billings Glacier juts off the mountain in the distance, the tip of it floating in the air like the prow of a ship.

  But I can’t write it down, not with the jerking of the snow machine, so I hold tight to Tate and let myself experience every second, hoping that on some level it sticks.

  After lunch, Tate walks me to the entrance of BTI. The wind has kicked up, brushing over the water in broad strokes that carry droplets in the air, stings our faces. I observe Tate from behind my face mask. He’s older, comfortable in his own skin, and handsome in that weathered way that Alaskan men get as they age. And while I can’t remember the details of the time we spent together, the air between us is laden with something warm and sweet, familiar in the relaxed slouch of his shoulders, the smoothness of his words. He’s comfortable with me.

  “I’d like to come over sometime, if . . . that’s okay?” His question makes me fidget, blush like a teenage girl, so that I’m grateful for the mask. “Hang out, watch a movie? Maybe g . . . g-o to Alyeska and ski?”

  I nod, try to ignore the jittery tap of my toes on the concrete. “I don’t think I smoke weed anymore, though, Tate.”

  He laughs. “Me either.” And then his lips brush my cheek through my face mask, his arms circle me in a hug, and it’s normal and natural even if it feels like the first time. “And I’ve sent you some pictures on the tablet I gave to you. It’s on your kitchen counter with a sticky note on the screen. You can’t miss it.”

  “What pictures?”

  “It’s from snow machining today p . . . p-lus a video from my phone. I did it during lunch, so it’s . . . nothing professional, but I think it’s a start.”

  I touch my legs, feel the plush waterproof material of snow pants, the tight band of goggles strapped to my head. It’s what I would wear for snow machining. “That must have been fun,” I say, and hope that he can’t hear the sadness I feel at not being able to remember.

  “It was. You laughed nearly the entire time. It’s a start.”

  My eyebrows meet. “A start?”

  He pulls me closer, and it’s not the cold that sends shivers across my back. “To get to know each other. I want to know you again, Claire.”

  I’m thankful for the gaiter that hides my frown. “But how can I get to know you, Tate, if I can’t remember?”

  Cracks run out from his eyes when he smiles. “If you can trust me, I’m hoping the p . . . p-ictures and videos will take some of the burden of remembering off you. Plus, I’m . . . pretty hard to forget.”

  This fits with the Tate I remember—sweet, thoughtful, funny, and maybe just a tad cocky, but in the cute kind of way—and I can’t help but smile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Monday, February 18

  I’ve been waiting for Maree to knock on my door, and when she does, I’m struck by how badly I want to see her and know her—and I do, but only from my notes and the pictures I’ve been staring at for the past half hour. Without those, I’d walk right past her in the hallway, not a beat of recognition other than from the photos I hold in my hand.

  But the girl outside my door doesn’t resemble the one from the photos, who makes goofy faces and smiles like she’s trying to split her face in two. It’s like someone blew out a light inside her.

  “Hi, Maree,” I say.

  “Hi,” she says and walks past me, shoulders slumped, not a smile or spark of enthusiasm about her.

  “Is everything okay?”

  When she looks up, her eyes are extra bright behind her glasses, the lids swollen and red. She presses her lips together and shakes her head.

  I bend down until I’m nearly eye level with her. “You look like you need a hug. Can I give you one of those?”

  She looks at the floor, nods.

  I put my arms around her and pull her toward me until her cheek rests against my shoulder and her brown locks tickle my chin. I inhale Froot Loops and soap and feel the light weight of her body press into mine; her arms circle around me as far as they will go. We stay like that for a few breaths, and I have to swallow hard because I am overcome with a tenderness that feels so natural it makes my chest ache.

  I pat her back. “Feel any better?”

  She pulls away, gives me a one-eyed look that darts to the kitchen counter behind me. “Can I have a cookie? That would probably make me feel a lot better.”

  “Sure.”

  She sits at the table, and I bring her the plate of cookies along with a cold glass of milk. A cookie is in her hand in seconds, dipping in and out of the milk before getting popped into her mouth.

  “Mmmm, yummy.” She drinks the rest of the milk in a loud gulp, leaving a white mustache across her upper lip. “Do you want one?” she says, and wipes the milk away with the back of her sleeve.

  I suppress a smile. “Maybe later. Are you okay?” I say. It’s a risk to ask this. I’m not really the best person to confide in. I reconsider. Or maybe I am if a person just needs someone to listen, because that I can do very well.

  She frowns. “Oh yeah, I was really sad. But you made me feel better with t
he cookies, and besides, she just doesn’t understand.”

  “Who?”

  “My best friend, Leonora.”

  Conversations are waves that move up and down, and if I don’t stay on top of them, the details wash over my head. This feels like a detail I’ve missed, but it’s not hard to guess that Leonora is another little girl who must have said something to upset Maree. Tate used to get made fun of by a boy in our class, mostly for his stuttering but also because his pants were always to his ankles and he was so skinny his bones poked out. We were in the seventh grade when Tate’s stuttering became so bad he refused to speak to anybody but me, and all that combined to make him an easy target. I can’t recall the boy’s name anymore or the color of his hair, but I do remember the size of his bottom because I’d wanted to make sure I had enough glue. I felt so justified. Nobody picked on Tate.

  That day, I sat beside the boy, and when he went to the bathroom, I emptied almost a whole bottle of superglue onto his seat. It was the kind of desk that was attached to the chair, so when he stood up later, the entire desk came with him. He never bothered Tate again, and I never felt bad about the incident like I do now when I think about it. I shift in my seat, sigh; kids can be mean, even when they don’t intend to be or, like me, when they think they have a reason to be. Which is another reason I would have made a good teacher: my empathy for kids in general. I look at the little girl, chomping a second cookie that she thinks I didn’t see her take, and I puff up. Maybe I can still be a good teacher, even now. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess. Leonora said my stories are all fake ’cause my mom’s a drug addict.”

  I tilt my head, concerned because it’s a little more serious than I could have imagined, and I can’t ignore a side of me that would like to take Leonora by the ear and give her a piece of my mind. Not very teacherly of me. “Did Leonora know your mom?”